


The Horizon Hides You in Vain

by Elialys



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (kind of), Angst, Dark Doctor (Doctor Who), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Doctor (Doctor Who), Post-Episode: s02e13 Doomsday, Post-Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy, Time Travel, Timey-Wimey, in which the doctor becomes a bit reckless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 09:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19104607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elialys/pseuds/Elialys
Summary: "He’s spent hours weaving the thread of their life together into a comprehensive timeline.When time travel’s involved, the subsequent timelines are never linear. His time with Rose is not a straight line. It zigzags and it swirls, looping and stretching, going backward and forward, until the map in his mind resembles a complex molecule in its three-dimensional form.The Doctor is nine-hundred-and-some years old when he breaks one of the most basic laws of time travel. He selects a point from his own timeline, one of those dots half-concealed in the weaving and swirling, and visits it again.It won’t be a singular event."





	The Horizon Hides You in Vain

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I'm saying this at the start of all my DW fanfics, but I didn't try reinventing the wheel with this story; all I know is that 'The Doctor travels back in time to visit Rose because he misses her THAT MUCH' has been an absolute favourite tropes of mine ever since I started reading ten x rose fanfics this summer, so of course I had to give it a go. 
> 
> This ended up being 'slightly' longer than I thought it would be but oh well. I would hate to split it up into chapters, as it would kind of ruin the flow of it; hopefully you've got some time to spare. All quotes (title included) come from various Pablo Neruda's poems.
> 
> This is timey-wimey. And angsty. With some juicer stuff somewhere in the middle of all the angst.

...

**THE HORIZON HIDES YOU IN VAIN**

...

 

It will always start like this: with a tickle, a tingle, a prickle.

It will take root at the base of her skull, crawl up the sides of her neck, before shooting down her spine, something in her mind already shifting in anticipation.

She will ask him, someday, why she was always so aware of _him_ , back when she didn’t even know who _he_ was; why she’d sensed _him_ more than she'd sensed any other him.

He’ll speak of telepathic connection and intertwined timelines, of how it made her more responsive, almost hypersensitive, long before they’d established the bond.

_Imagine a stone thrown into water. You were the water, I was the stone. You experienced the ripples as much as you experienced me, breaking through the surface. Nothing’s linear when time travel’s involved._

She’ll pretend she gets it.

Some part of her does.

…

 

_I remembered you with my soul clenched_

_in that sadness of mine that you know_

…

 

He’s spent hours weaving the thread of their life together into a comprehensive timeline.

When time travel’s involved, the subsequent timelines are never linear. His time with Rose is not a straight line. It zigzags and it swirls, looping and stretching, going backward and forward, until the map in his mind resembles a complex molecule in its three-dimensional form.

He’s connected the dots of their shared experiences and kept track of each passing day, week and month through the building of memories, through his awareness of her.

How, for example, every twenty-six to thirty-one days, her hormone levels would crash. That’s when she missed her mother the most, yet refused to go visit her because she knew they’d row…when he was most likely to find her in tears in front of the telly…when he sometimes joined her in the kitchen in the middle of ‘the night’, her sleep cycle interrupted by a sudden craving, their conversation quiet and low in the dim light.

Their journey was never linear, neither in time nor in space, but that thread that kept them together had been sturdy, steady in its growth, strengthening with every jump they made out of the Time Vortex, until it was so thick and tight, it appeared unbreakable.

It hangs loose in his mind, now, abruptly severed after Canary Wharf, the extremity of it sparking and raw, like a wire violently torn and left exposed.

That’s where his memories of Bad Wolf Bay reside, the thought of her tear-stained face and desperate attempts at reaching him through words instead of touch as agonising as he imagines it would be, to take a hold of that bare wire and _clench_ , letting the pain spread through his nervous system like a vicious current, every cell of his body left burning in its wake.

The Doctor is nine-hundred-and-some years old when he breaks one of the most basic laws of time travel. He selects a point from his own timeline, one of those dots half-concealed in the weaving and swirling, and visits it again.

It won’t be a singular event.

…

He’s haunted by the memory of her.

That’s his downfall, in the end; his inability to forget.

Some time has passed since his brief encounter with Donna on Christmas day when he makes his first trip to the past. Enough time to make him _crave_ the sight of Rose.

He’s grown weary of seeing her in strangers, of catching glimpses of her that are never her at all.

He’s grown weary.

He picks a point in their timeline when she has yet to know this face. There are many places he could have gone to, many planets and time periods; his first few months spent with Rose in his previous incarnation had been particularly intense. He’s catalogued more than fifty-three times and (or) locations. That number tripled in his current regeneration.

He could have watched her on exotic planets, or a few centuries ahead, or ago.

He watches her in London instead.

More specifically, he watches her in her own neighbourhood. He feels a pull to the Powell Estate he cannot quite explain – would rather not explain.

And so that’s where he goes, choosing a day when he knows his former self to have remained inside the TARDIS, too grouchy on that particular day to want and have anything to do with Jackie Tyler and probably Mickey the Idiot.

He’s parked his own TARDIS quite a safe distance away, having walked the rest of the way with brisk, hurried steps, ignoring the small warning bells in his mind, uneasy about another _him_ being so close by.

This is _irrational_ and rather stupid, unworthy of a Time Lord of his age and experience. Ultimately, it is also harmless, his awareness of their timeline assuring him that what he intends to do won’t cause any disruption.

He finds himself watching from the shadows as Rose exits the TARDIS with a bounce in her step, the way she always does – _did_ , her long, untidy hair getting caught in the wind as she half-jogs toward the estate’s building.

He barely has time to catch a glimpse of her face, flushed cheeks and made-up eyes, before she’s opened the door and disappeared inside.

The Doctor spends a long time leaning against the brick wall, afterwards, waiting for the tingles in his limbs to dissipate, his breathing only deep and slow because he’s controlling it, overwhelmed with mixed elation, sorrow and disappointment.

When the sun begins to set and she doesn’t reappear, he pushes himself off the wall, and starts a slow walk back to his own TARDIS; his body feels heavy, his hearts heavier still.

He wouldn’t be doing this again.

…

He does it again.

He does it often enough to run out of opportunities to watch her on her own.

He has no other choice but to watch that other version of himself smile down at her as they exit the TARDIS, the grin enough to light up his entire face.

As he observes this Doctor and Rose Tyler walk side by side, almost hand in hand, he’s filled with such envy and grief that he has to walk away before they even come close enough for him to get a proper look at her face.

Donna was right, he decides on his way back to his TARDIS.

He needs someone.

_…_

From the moment he stood by her side, looking up at the stars with his hand holding hers, drawing warmth from her, the Doctor knew snow would always remind him of Rose.

Which is somewhat ironic, considering the flakes that had softly landed on her head that night hadn’t been snow at all. It’d been close enough.

Enough for the memory to sear itself in his mind.

After Canary Wharf and Bad Wolf Bay, he avoids cold planets and wintery seasons. He could lie to himself, pretend he simply prefers warmer climates, but the truth of it is, he’s still trying to outrun the memory of Rose. He’s so easily triggered, now, by the smallest of things.

He doesn’t need the big ones shoved in his face.

He doesn’t need to be reminded of a time when, somewhat still high on regenerative energy, he genuinely believed she might stay with him forever.

But nothing lasts forever. He knows that better than most. And he can handle this.

He can handle almost anything.

He handles spending a year trapped in a decrepit body, regularly tortured by a mad man he once called his friend; he handles that same man, the only other Time Lord left in existence, dying in his arms; he handles Martha leaving him; he handles being forced to watch as too many people under his protection die on that damned ship.

But when he stands outside on another Christmas night, looking up at the stars through falling ‘snow’, his hand is unbearably cold, and he’s had enough.

His insides ache with a deep sense of loss that refuses to heal, recently made raw again by the unfair death of another young woman who’d only wanted to see the universe.

 _I won’t forget her_ , Mister Copper says.

And although the Doctor knows he’s talking about Astrid, all he thinks about is Rose.

All he feels is lonely.

He misses her.

He should not seek her. Everything rational in him tells him so. All these glimpses of her he’s allowed himself to catch, that was foolish enough. But what good is it, to have a _time machine_ , if he can’t use it to simply look at her…to have her look at him, too, and maybe even smile?  

His TARDIS, known for fighting hard against his will whenever he tries doing something particularly reckless, has been unusually cooperative thus far. Even when he enters a new set of coordinates, having chosen a point further along their timeline than ever before, a point where _this_ face is no longer an unknown entity, his connection to his ship remains quiet and smooth.

Maybe she needs this, too, his TARDIS. She’s just spent over a year forced to perform less than admirable deeds, and he never doubted of the affection his sentient ship felt for this particular companion of his.

It was always there, from the way his TARDIS made her life onboard as comfortable and carefree as possible, to the fact that she once allowed Rose to hold her beaming heart within herself.

He suspects she misses her, too.

…

Rose is coming back from the corner store, walking towards her building with two heavy bags in hands when it starts; the tingles.

The sensation is unexpected enough to cause her pace to slow and halt almost completely, instinctively looking around, searching for the cause of it, as if something in her knew she should be looking. Even as she does so, the sensation at the back of her neck turns into an odd nudge inside her mind.

She meets his gaze across empty space.

Her heart leaps a little, the way it always does, these days. She’s still getting used to this new face of his, and she’s a little _too_ aware that ‘surprise’ is not the emotion making her heart speed up.

Despite her confusion at finding him outside her building when she’d last seen him inside of it, Rose cannot help but smile, quite broadly at that, the way they’ve been beaming at each other every time one of them walks into a room, this week.

For the first time since Christmas and the Sycorax, the Doctor doesn’t smile back.

Her breathing becomes shallow, her heart nearly pounding, now. She feels her grin faltering as she becomes aware of some glaring differences, a rather massive one being how much shorter his hair is.

That, and the look in his eyes.

Something else is nudging at her mind, now, something she should know, yet can’t quite remember, shaken by a sudden feeling of déjà-vu.

She doesn’t realise she’s moving until she’s walking again, walking towards him; but he’s pushed himself off the wall and turned the corner. Even jogging, she’s not fast enough, slowed by her heavy bags, soon hearing the unmistakable _whoosh_ of the TARDIS dematerialising. She barely catches a glimpse of the blue box before it vanishes completely.

Rose goes back upstairs in a daze. She hears their voices long before she sees them, the two of them bickering in the kitchen. As she follows the familiar sounds, she glances at _this_ TARDIS, still parked in her mother’s living room, the way it’s been for the past few days, ever since he brought it here to help fix-up their half-destroyed apartment.

The moment she enters the kitchen, the Doctor looks up at her and _beams_.

“Hello!” He exclaims at once, but their roles are reversed, now, Rose unable to smile back, and he frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” she tries, shaking her head a little. “’m not too sure.”

“Blimey you’re _pale_!” Jackie almost shouts, making a beeline for her daughter, trying to cup her face in her hands as if she was ten again, apparently forgetting that she’s been baking, her fingers covered with uncooked pastry. “What’s happened to you?”

“Can you _not_?” Rose squirms her way out of her mother’s smothering grip, trying to wipe off chunks of dough from her cheeks with her shoulders, her hands still full.

She walks to the table where the Doctor’s been sitting, de-stringing green beans, dropping the grocery bags on some available space so she can finish dusting off her face.

“Something weird's just happened,” she announces.

“Yes, I can see that. You do look a bit peaky.” He reaches up for her face, too, his fingers flicking at some dough, sending it flying across the kitchen. “Care to elaborate?”

She bites on her lip, still trying to wrap her mind around _who_ she’s seen, and what it might mean. “Remember how…you’ve always told me that travelling within your own timeline was bad and all that? I think I just…met you. ‘xcept it wasn’t you.”

Both his eyebrows raise so high that some of it disappear under his fringe. “Another regeneration?”

“No,” she shakes her head, strangely breathless. “It was…you, just…different.”

“Oh, that _is_ weird,” the Doctor says, although he seems more intrigued and excited about it than worried, the way he seems to be about _everything_ in this new incarnation of his, a change she’s still getting used to. “Obviously this hasn’t happened to me yet, so you may have met future me. Had to have a reason, though. Wouldn’t risk a paradox unless I knew something I did or said was necessary for something else to happen the way it’s supposed to happen.”

“You mean, like, Harry did in Prisoner of Azkaban?” The two of them have had enough heated debates about the book series in the TARDIS library this past year for her to know he’ll understand what she means.

“Why d’you go talking about Harry Potter for?” Jackie butts in with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Thought you’d outgrown that whole silly phase. Made me wait in line with her for _hours_ a couple years back when the new book came out, she did,” she tells the Doctor.

“I’m not just sayin’ that,” Rose protests, annoyed. “There’s a bit at the end of the third book where Harry sees himself and thinks it’s his dad. And when he realises what’s really going on, he’s got no other choice but to create a paradox to save himself, just like the Doctor’s saying.”

“Brilliant,” the Doctor beams up at Rose. “Such an easily recognisable and understandable reference, I love it. Rose Tyler: time traveller extraordinaire.” She cannot help but blush at the delight in his voice and the sheer appreciation in his eyes. “So, what did I say to you, then?”

“Mmm...nothing.”

His eyebrows go from high to low, frowning deeply. “Nothing?”

“You just kind of…stood there looking…uhm, grumpy?”

“ _Grumpy?_ ” He carries on with the parroting, his voice much higher this time.

“I dunno,” Rose breathes out, her eyes glazing over as she thinks back to what happened downstairs, distractedly bringing her thumb to her lips to nibble at her nail. “Grumpy’s not the right word. You just looked…sad.”

Even as she says these words, the nudging sensation in her brain resumes, and she thinks of snow.

A heavy silence settles in the kitchen, only broken by the loud ticking of the clock.

“Doesn’t sound too alarming to me,” Jackie eventually says with a dismissive wave, putting an end to the moment. “Unless you’re ‘bout to tell me this means you’re gonna get abducted by them aliens again, that roast dinner’s not gonna prepare itself, and _this_ Doctor of yours is even a worse cook than you are!”

As the two of them resume the argument they’d been having when Rose first entered the apartment, she moves to the window and peers down, looking at the place where she’d once had an odd encounter with a stranger on New Year’s Eve.

…

Even as he rushes his TARDIS into the Time Vortex, the Doctor has to cling to the edges of the console, not only because of this particularly rough take off; he’s dealing with a non-negligible amount of pain as well.

Inside his aching mind, the map that makes up his and Rose’s history quivers and stretches, the very point he visited mutating as it takes in the changes he’s caused. The thread of his present timeline strains itself thin to come entangle itself lightly with Rose’s past.

He’s gained a new memory, too, one he knows did not exist ten minutes ago, merging with the pre-existing one.

Bent over the console, clutching at it to the point where his knuckles turn white, he focuses on what feels to him like a distant memory; the start of it remains the same; Jackie knocking (banging) on his TARDIS door until he came out, demanding that he gave her a hand to prepare dinner, which he’d done – with some grumbling, until Rose came back from her grocery shopping.

That’s where the memory diverges.

The version where Rose had joined him at the table and helped him with the beans, their legs and shoulders snugly pressed up against one another, has been rewritten by a scene in which Rose claimed to have seen a future version of him.

_“You just looked…sad.”_

His younger self had been remarkably unbothered by the information – yet again, did he find anything bothering, during those first few days in this body? He now remembers thinking this other _him_ might have just accidentally landed at the wrong time, his theory supported by the simple fact that _he_ ’d made sure not to talk to Rose.

In his mind, their timeline has finally settled, as if untouched, despite the small changes that have taken place.

He knows he can’t risk this again, no matter how much he longs for another minute with her, for another smile.

It’d been too short, always too short, now feeling equally dejected and rejuvenated from having experienced this brief moment with her; he’ll cherish this new (old) memory of her.

But he won’t do it again.

…

 

  _My struggle is harsh and I come back with eyes tired_

_from having seen the unchanging earth_

_..._

 

The fabric of his shirt is soaked with rain water when he makes up his mind.

He fights it, of course. Goes on a couple of adventures, attempting various forms of distraction.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter, how much he tries being level-headed.

He’s been treading on this slippery slope for years, trying to cover up his pain to no avail, getting attached to people he cannot keep, over and over again. And every time another one of them leaves, he’s that much more alone.

It’s even worse, now, after having Rose back for the briefest of instant, only to give her up to… another version of himself.

He _needs_ someone. Donna taught him that much.

He needs someone, but he cannot subject another person to his curse, condemn yet another soul to become a warrior on his behalf, another person he’ll eventually have to abandon, if they don’t abandon him first.

 _In the end, they break my heart_.

He’s not slept in days, unable to bear the thought of lying in the dark with his mind free to explore that other timeline Rose and this other _him_ are now weaving together. He doesn’t think he can cope with the pain, the envy, and the want – and it’s not necessarily the physical kind either, not _only_ the physical kind.

He loved and needed her long before he wanted her.

Right now, he just needs her.

This time, when he enters the new coordinates, the TARDIS doesn’t remain silent, filling the corners of his mind with nuances of mauve, a quiet warning she already knows he’s going to ignore.

He’s got nothing left to lose.

…

For the first time since he regenerated, the Doctor does not accompany Rose to her mother’s. She tries not to read too much into it.

She ends up reading way too much into it.

“You two lovebirds had a fight?” Jackie teases when Rose appears alone, that day.

Rose’s answer comes in the form of pinched lips and shifty, misty eyes. Jackie doesn’t prod, launching herself into one of her long-winded chit-chats about everything her daughter’s missed these past few weeks, especially about people she really doesn’t care to hear about.

Rose lets her mother talk; she spends so much of her waking hours listening to endless chatters these days that any kind of silence tends to feel uncomfortable. And she has to admit, it’s kind of nice, spending some time with another _woman_ , after spending the past month or so with two men – human and else.

When her mum goes off to some lunching with friends, an outing Rose didn’t feel like braving, she’s restless within minutes. With nothing better to do, she roams the apartment, tidying up as she goes, unable to keep her mind from going back to her last few hours on the TARDIS, her skin _crawling_ at the memory of how unusually quiet the Doctor has been ever since he’s returned from his brief time in France.

Mickey had actually been the one to request going back home for a bit, clearly bothered by the tension that’d strained between them, back on the TARDIS.

Rose feels like the life she’s built this past year is crumbling down. Everything she thought she knew…it’s all slipping away from her.

He’s slipping away from her.

When the Doctor regenerated, he was so full of energy and optimism, so lovely and wonderfully clingy, she thought it’d be the way they were, now. She thought it meant he trusted her, enough to let himself be more joyful around her.

She has to come to terms with the fact that this Doctor is actually harder to read than the man she first met, so quick to hide behind a grin, a bounce, or a sprint. His previous incarnation might have been more prone to sulking, he’d actually been quite honest with her, from their first few hours together.

This new Doctor…he will dodge any attempt she makes at getting him to confide in her, unless he’s cornered into it, at which point his truth usually comes out with thorns that sink deep into her heart.

_I don't age. I regenerate. But humans decay. You wither and you die._

Rose grabs her keys, unable to stay one more minute inside, hoping the fresh air might do her some good.

She opens the front door, and stops dead in her tracks.

There, leaning against the opposite wall, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, is the Doctor.

Except that it’s not…her Doctor.

Not quite.

He’s not looking at her, his gaze fixed somewhere down the hall, his jaw set, his features strained.

Rose stares at him, willing her heart to slow down, her pulse having sped up in shock while adrenaline makes her extremities tingle. She’s about to ask him what _he_ ’s doing here, when another kind of sensation prickles at the back of her neck, swiftly travelling down her spine, followed by a push in her mind.

As if he’d sensed it, the Doctor’s head slowly rolls upon the wall, letting their eyes meet.

In her chest, her heart speeds up even more, caught up in his gaze, acutely aware that he’s not even blinking, as if afraid she might disappear if he does.

Time stretches, and he still doesn’t speak.

She comes to his rescue, in the end, the way she always will, tilting her head towards the inside of the apartment. “Wanna come in?”

He’s moving a little, now, the back of his head softly yet regularly bumping against the wall, and she suspects this small display of his inner struggles is only the tip of the iceberg.

“Doctor?” She prompts again after another minute of silence, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nods once, shortly, swallowing hard enough for her gaze to drop to his throat, watching as his Adam’s apple moves up, then down. “Yes,” he says at last, his voice low, and hoarse.

Rose moves aside, opening the door wider to let him walk in. As soon as he does, she closes it, pressing her back to it, clinging to the handle with both hands. She watches him as his eyes swiftly roam the place, nibbling on the inside of her lip, aware that his unease is only getting worse.

There is a slightly frantic look settling on his face, his distress obvious when he brings a hand to the back of his head and ruffles his hair, finally turning his head to look at her.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he speaks quietly, his voice still lower than what she’s used to hearing from…well, him.

Everything about him is…different.

And yet, there are obvious similarities with the Doctor she’s left brooding on his TARDIS a couple hours ago.

“Figured that much, yeah,” she says softly, and he swallows hard again, averting his eyes…only to lock gaze with her a mere second later, causing more tingles to spread beneath her skin. “D’you…” she tries. “D’you want something to drink?” She offers, a bit awkwardly.

He shakes his head, not even bothering with a verbal answer, carrying on staring at her with such intensity that she feels herself blushing.

“Where…” She stops herself. “ _When_ are you from?”

He blinks at last, looking away for good, this time. “I can’t,” he says, his voice constricted, staring at the dark telly screen. “Anything I say…I’m already altering your timeline by standing here.”

Rose catches herself biting on her thumbnail, pulling her hand away from her face. There is so much tension emanating from him, and the kind of loneliness she’s never seen on him. Not on _this_ him.

She’s seen it quite a lot on the _him_ she’s been missing deeply, lately.

She makes a decision.

“What if we don’t talk?” She asks quietly, and he meets her gaze again, a mix of confusion, hope and sheer torment twisting his face. “I know you,” she says, before lowering her eyes, adding under her breath: “At least I thought I did…” She stares at her feet as the humiliation she’s felt these past few days wash through her, causing the flush in her cheeks to go up a notch.

She shakes her head a little, looking back up at him, his brow now creased in a small, worried frown. “You wouldn’t…”She tries again. “You’re always talking about…the laws of time travel, about the dangers of doing things for personal gain and whatnots. You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t…” she pauses, taking a wobbly breath, “…if you didn’t need to.”

 _If you didn’t need me_ , she doesn’t dare to say, although this is exactly what his body language is telling her.

He needs her.

Somehow, this is exactly what she needs, too.

She pushes herself off the door and walks to him, now able to hear his breathing, uncharacteristically loud and shallow. She stops in front of him, slowly raising a hand to his face, letting her fingers sink in his hair, noticeably shorter than the Doctor she travels with.

He closes his eyes at her touch, his face constricting slightly while his entire body tenses, as if he’s keeping himself from moving. Knowing he will not take the lead, she carries on acting bolder than she feels, wrapping her arms around him, until she’s properly hugging him to her.

He stands rigid and still against her for a long time…long enough for Rose to start worrying that she may have misread this, just like she’s been misreading her Doctor. But just when she’s about to let him go, he moves, his arms coming to circle her, and he _squeezes_.

He holds her to him, burying his face in her hair, his grip tighter and more desperate than any embrace she’s ever shared with the Doctor, in any incarnation.

She tries hard not to think about what might have happened to him as she lets one of her hands move upon his back, her touch slow and soothing. She shouldn’t think about why he’s coming to _her_ for comfort.

Thinking about it makes it a little too obvious that _she_ ’s not by his side anymore.

She focuses on him instead, some of the tension draining from his body as he sinks more heavily against her. As he does so, her face comes to rest against his neck, and her lungs fill up with his scent; it is a smell she knows well, familiar and unchanged.

The next time she exhales, the air pools against his skin.

He shudders almost violently, his hold on her tightening briefly…before he releases her altogether, almost stumbling back as he steps away from her, turning around, a hand already up to clutch at his hair.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, his voice somehow hoarser than before, deliberately _not_ letting her see his face anymore.

She catches a glimpse of it as he swiftly walks passed her, going for the door. She lets him go, too dazed by the entire situation to get a chance at maybe stopping him.

He does pause on his way out.

“Talk to him,” he says simply. “I know _when_ this is. He’s not…” He stops, turning his head to meet her gaze. “He wants to talk to you, about what’s happened. He just…doesn’t know how.”

He doesn’t ask her to keep his visit a secret, as if he already knows she won’t speak a word of it.

She watches him step out of her life, this lonely Doctor, wondering if she’ll ever see him again.

It won’t be long before she does.

… 

He doesn’t even send the TARDIS into the Time Vortex, this time.

He’s simultaneously emboldened and panicked by his brief interaction with Rose.

He talked to her.

He’s gone as far as _touching_ her, something he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t do on his way to her apartment. But as far as he can tell, their interactions had no effect whatsoever on their timeline, except for how it added another one of those threads and a dot, where his present became entwined with her past.

The conversation Rose and his younger self eventually had about what happened to him in France seems to have taken place slightly earlier than it initially had, but it would be another day or so before Mickey is ready to join them again and leave London...with a reluctance the Doctor did not exactly pick up on at the time; he’d been too relieved about things being less tensed between himself and Rose to pay much attention to Ricky.

He stays put, reluctant to move his ship and give her an opportunity to put an end to whatever it is he’s doing. He already had to dim their connection, her disapproval and concern increasing with every passing hour they spend in this place.

He cannot bring himself to leave, not when he’s just been reminded of how good she feels in his arms, how perfectly she fits there. How perfectly _he_ fits against her. Pulling himself from her had been hard enough; he doesn’t know if he’ll manage it again, and yet...and yet, he would be a fool not to take advantage of this opportunity while it lasts.

His time with her is as limited as it is for his younger self. He can carry on popping it and out of their timeline until Canary Wharf, at which point this will be over.

And so he stays put, knowing Rose would be back here, at that particular time, within the next few days. A couple weeks will have passed for her. He remembers fearing that she might not step back onto his TARDIS, at that point.

It’d been an odd time, for them, caused by a succession of odd situations, between Sarah Jane Smith, Madame de Pompadour, and Mickey deciding to stay behind in the other universe. He realises how confused she is, that she can do without having to deal with _him_ on top of everything else.

She might have come back on the TARDIS once she’d had enough time to process Mickey’s decision, at least enough to resume their adventures, _him_ intervening in that fragile time might just be what breaks her, what his TARDIS is warning him about.

He stays put anyway.

…

Rose declines her mum’s offer to help her clean out Mickey’s apartment. She needs the time alone, hoping that sorting out his belongings will help her sort out the mess that are her feelings.

It turns out to be a stupid idea, which leaves her crying as she looks through his DVD collection, and realises they'll never share another movie night.

He’d never _not_ been a part of her life, in turn best friend, in turn lover, always a steady presence no matter what...someone who always had her back.

And she pushed him away. _She_ made him feel insignificant enough for him to believe he would be better off living a universe away from her.

She can’t blame him; he’s always loved her in a way she couldn’t reciprocate, and he’d been quite honest about it, too. Rationally, she understands why he couldn’t carry on being the third wheel on that ship.

It still hurts like hell.

She’s moved on to his bedroom, collecting photographs he’d pinned to the wall, when there’s a knock on the door. She rehearses the lie in her head, the one about Mickey having decided to travel the world, ready to try it on whoever is at the door.

Given the way her nape suddenly tingles as her hand reaches for the handle, she should have known. This warning sign isn’t enough to keep her mind from going blank the moment she opens the door, and finds herself looking at the Doctor.

Once again, it isn’t _her_ Doctor.

Her shoulders slump in weariness, quickly averting her gaze before she gets too caught up in his. She doesn’t bother with a greeting; neither does he.

She merely steps away from the door, leaving it open to indicate he’s allowed to come in, if he feels like it, but she’s got too much on her mind to extend the invitation.

He’s not a _stranger_ by any mean, aware that he’s every bit the Doctor as the man she left behind with her mum. And yet, he’s not quite the man she knows either.

She goes back to the bedroom, kneeling on Mickey’s bed to resume pulling pictures off the wall. She senses him joining her more than she hears him, a new wave of shivers traveling down her spine as he watches her from the doorway.

“Are you gonna talk, today?” She asks, not turning around. Before he can answer, she adds: “And don’t tell me you can’t. Technically, you can’t be here either, yet you are. Again. Whatever it is you think I can give you, I’m no miracle worker. I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”

She wants to cringe at the resentment in her voice. She’s just…tired. And hurt.

And yes, still rather humiliated.

Dealing with one emotionally repressed Time Lord was difficult enough; she doesn’t know if she has the strength for two.

“You’re right,” he says at last. “I’m sorry.”

There is so much dejection and self-loathing in those few quiet words that Rose has to turn around, just in time to see him push himself off the jamb, already turning away.

“Wait!” She calls him out, scrambling off the bed so hastily that she knocks over the box of belongings she’d collected.

She instinctively grabs at his hand, keeping him from walking any further. He looks down at their joined hands first, before raising his head to look at her, with such a conflicted look that her insides hurt.

“’m sorry,” she says in turn, quietly. “I’m having kind of a bad week.”

He nods faintly, his eyes softening, and for the first time since she’s met _him_ , she sees the gentler side of him. “I know,” he says, his fingers curling ever so slightly around hers, reminding her that he would know indeed, coming from a time ahead of her.

She tilts her head. “When are you from?” She cannot help but ask again, searching his face, as if for clues. He looks…older, but not by much, not in terms of lines on his skin.

There seem to be many more years weighing down on him.

He shakes his head, having already looked away, swallowing hard.

Inside her chest, her heart is speeding up in anticipation of what she’s about to ask. “Am I…” It’s her turn to swallow. “Am I dead?”

His head immediately snaps back to look at her, his eyes rounding. “What?” He asks, sounding exactly like the Doctor she knows. “No,” he shakes his head. “No, Rose, you’re not dead at all. You’re very much alive, and I suspect…” He pauses, his eyes squinting a little, looking away again. “I suspect you’re quite happy.”

She frowns in confusion. How can she be alive, and _happy_ , when she’s clearly not by his side anymore?

“What’s happened?” She has to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.

He closes his eyes with another shake of his head, and she tugs at his hand until he looks at her again.

“You’ve got to _talk_ to me,” she tells him, her voice quiet and low, yet forceful. “I can tell you’ve been traveling alone _.”_

 _I can tell you’re in pain_.

“You’ve not looked this lonely since I first met you,” she continues, “and we both know how miserable you were, then. I’m not stupid. I know I can’t just…whizz off into space with you without bringing about the end of the universe or something but I can’t…I can’t let you go on like this, with you popping by whenever you’re feeling really down, before running off in shame without saying a word.”

“I _can’t_ talk to you,” he insists, his voice having gone down almost an octave. “There are…things, things that are supposed to happen. If I tell you any of it…you won’t be able to let them run their course. You just won’t.”

She stares up at him, her heart pounding, from both his proximity and the intensity of his gaze.

That, and the fact that she’s about to suggest something insane.

“You could always…take it away. Afterwards.”

His entire body tenses. “What?”

“The memory of…whatever it is you shouldn’t tell me. You can talk to me and then just…erase it.”

He reacts more strongly than she anticipated.

He yanks his hand out of hers and almost stumbles as he takes a step back, shaking his head vehemently. “No,” he says, his voice louder. “Absolutely not, I am not doing that, not again.”

Not _again_?

“But you could, though, if you wanted to?” She has to ask. “You could…link your mind with mine, and take it all away, yeah?”

She can tell he's clenching his teeth as he stares at her, hard, looking more intimidating than she’s seen him in a while – any him.

“Jealousy is not a pretty emotion, Rose,” he speaks at last, in his lowest voice yet. “It doesn't suit you.”

She feels herself blushing, in embarrassment and growing irritation. _Jealousy?_ Who’s said anything about jealousy?

What does he think he knows, exactly?

“I know what you’ve talked about with…me,” he says, as if he’s read her mind. “I was there.”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest, her cheeks burning, irritation taking over her embarrassment, never one to appreciate the way he sometimes patronizes her. “Yeah, well, you really haven’t changed that much. Empathy’s still not one of your best skills.”

The conversation they’re referring to – without mentioning it at all, took place shortly after _this_ him visited her at her mum’s apartment. Just like she did with him today, she’d demanded that the Doctor talk to her, about why losing Madame de Pompadour was upsetting him so much when, from their point of view, he’d only known her for a few hours.

It’d taken some nudging and coaxing and refusal to move aside and let him leave the kitchen, before he eventually caved in.

_“I may have…accidentally created a bit of a…bond with Reinette while I was trying to figure out why these machines were after her. I did that by reading her mind, and she somehow ended up reading mine. Hadn’t happened in…a very long time. It was brief but genuine. That kind of connection, no matter how fleeting, it makes the loss more…difficult.”_

The Doctor had actually cheered up quite a bit after that, as if the simple act of _admitting_ what had been weighing on him truly helped, soon launching himself into a speedy lecture about Time Lords and their telepathic abilities. Rose had smiled through it all, forcing herself to pretend everything was fine, too relieved to see him perk up to allow herself to wallow in the unexpected feeling of inadequacy that had taken over her.

Until now.

She just doesn’t understand it. Why he would risk creating that kind of bond with a complete stranger, when he’d never as much as told her it was something he could _do_ , and they’d been living together in close quarters for months and months.

“Rose.”

The way he says her name draws her gaze back up to his. His face has softened again, while his sorrow seems more visible than ever before. She feels a characteristic burning in her eyes, and she blinks humiliated tears away, averting her gaze, even as he takes a step closer to her.

“It’s not something I chose to do,” he says quietly. “It just…happened. And it happening with someone who was little more than a stranger to me was enough to make me feel like I had lost one of my closest friends.” He pauses. “Why do you think I never attempted it with you?”

She feels too exposed, all of a sudden, too overwhelmed, barely able to _breathe_ with him staring at her like this.

“Not French enough?” She suggests, choosing to dissipate some of the tension.

It pays off when the most beautiful of smiles pulls at his lips and changes his entire demeanour, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looks down at her with unabashed affection.

In what seems to be a purely instinctive gesture, he reaches up for her face, cupping her cheek as he leans down. She barely has time to register the feel of his cool skin upon the warmth of hers that he’s pressing his lips to hers in a soft, lingering kiss.

She’s so shocked that she doesn’t even respond, the Doctor already pulling away from her, letting go of her cheek to bring his hand to his face instead, pressing it to his mouth as he grimaces.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” he says against his hand, the words muffled, before turning away, his fingers already going from his face to his hair, clutching some more. “ _Really_ shouldn’t have done that.”

But Rose’s had enough of his _shouldn’t_.

She steps forward, grabbing his raised arm. When he lowers it and turns, she doesn’t hesitate, grabbing at the lapels of his jacket and _pulling_.

He doesn’t hesitate either.

His whole body seems to press onward, his mouth crashing down upon hers, anything but soft now, feeling herself moving backwards until her back hits the doorjamb. Both his hands have sunk into her hair, fingers curled tight as he kisses her, _really_ kisses her, and all she can do is try to keep up.

She's been wanting to do this for quite some time – especially since that small taste of him she got while possessed by Cassandra – but her longing seems almost pale compared to his; she feels years of _want_ in the way he holds her to him with that firm grip on her hair, his entire body pressing her harder and harder against the jamb.

He’s the first to let go, abruptly, stepping away with a hand once more up to his face, his eyes rounded in shock.

Rose tries catching her breath, leaning heavily against the wood behind her, her legs weak, her entire body shaking faintly. “You’re gonna have to do something about this, now,” she manages to say.

He drops his hand, looking at her in mild indignation, through eyes that are dark and slightly hazed. “That’s…that was just…”

“Minxy?”

“Not necessarily the word I’d use.”

They stare at each other, only a couple of meters separating them, such a small distance. Yet Rose knows not to push any further...not as far as _touching_ goes, anyway.

She cannot let this opportunity go.

“You’ve _got_ to do something though,” she insists, more quietly. “I’m not…trying to get even with some French courtesan. We’ve just made out. Something I’m pretty sure the Doctor waiting for me at my mother's isn’t going to experience for another few years, judging from the look on your face.” He tugs at his ear with a bit of an uncomfortable pout, purposefully _not_ looking at her. “How am I supposed to just go back to him now, and pretend nothing’s happened?”

Silence.

“I’m not erasing your mind.” His voice is low again; she knows he means it.

She bites on the inside of her cheek as she gathers up the courage to make her next suggestion.

“What about…what if you concealed it, then?” When he merely frowns, she continues: “I mean…you use perception filters all the time, yeah?” She’s twisting the hems of her sleeves with restless fingers. “Not just on pieces of paper, I’ve seen you do it. Isn’t there a way for you to…I dunno. Hide it all from me, unless you’re around?”

He stares at her, long, and hard, back to not even bothering with the blinking. “That’s…highly suggestive, not to mention controlling,” he eventually answers. “I’m not comfortable with that.”

“Yeah?” She breathes out. “How d’you think I feel about you, popping into our past and risking destroying all of space and time for a snog?”

He cringes, looking almost hurt by her words. “That's not...” He tries. “I didn't mean...”

“I  know,” she says softly, having pushed herself off the jamb. She extends a hand, slowly taking a hold of his again, running her thumb over his cooler skin. “But...if you get to make some questionable decisions, I should be given the same privilege. I want…” She takes a wobbly breath, frustrated with her inability to explain herself. “I don’t want you to just…leave. I want you to come back if...if you need to...” After a pause, she adds, her heart thumping against her ears: “...if you need me.”

The look that settles in his eyes and all over his face is heart-wrenching. If anything else, this should be her warning: that what she’s proposing is meant to break her, in the end.

But when he brings his free hand up to lightly cup her cheek, all she can do is lean into his touch, breathing deep the intoxicating smell of him as he lowers his face, until his forehead is touching hers.

“Do it,” she whispers, so close to his lips. “Make it so that we can do this without breaking the universe.”

To both their surprise, he does.

…

He knows her choice to be self-serving.

Yet again, as she so rightly put it, he’s been doing nothing but a succession of self-serving actions, lately, where Rose is concerned. He protests because he must, last of the Time Lords and all that, but he cannot pretend that establishing that kind of connection with her isn’t something he craves for.

He doesn’t protest long.

Soon, he’s bringing his other hand to her face, placing his fingers on her temples. “This might be a bit uncomfortable,” he warns her, and she nods, their foreheads still pressed together.

He closes his eyes, and focuses.

He feels her startle at the initial nudge of his mind upon hers, but there is none of the resistance he expected to feel. She opens up to him at once, as if she’d been expecting this, expecting him. He lets himself in, rippling through the vast and rich expense of her mind, following an oddly familiar path towards her memories.

As he does so, he begins weaving suggestions upon her thought patterns, gathering them to him as gently as he knows how.

 _A door once opened can be stepped through in either direction_.

He realises that she’s inside his head when he feels and hears her take a loud intake of air. He reopens his eyes, in time to see two tears streak down her face. He briefly refocuses on his own mind, finding her at once, warm, confused and distressed, gently drawing her out.

“What did you see?” He whispers, and she shakes her head a little, her face constricting even more.

“A beach,” she murmurs.

He almost breaks the connection in anguish, because she cannot know _this_ , not now, not yet…until he remembers that soon, this memory, just like this moment they’re sharing now, will be safely tucked away in a corner of her mind, until he sets them free.

“You’re going to rest, now,” he says, quietly, her state of mind close to hypnotic trance. “When I come back…I’ll say a phrase to you, and you’ll remember me. I’ll speak it to you now. Then, you will sleep.”

When she nods softly, he drops one of his hands from her face, circling her waist, before bringing his lips close to her ear: “ _The horizon hides you in vain_ …”

Rose's body goes limp.

He picks her up in his arms, and carries her back to Mickey’s bed, lying her down upon it, next to the scattered photographs. Her face has relaxed into a serene expression. As he makes to leave the bed, his eyes are drawn to a picture, unable to keep himself from extending a hand, picking it up.

A young Rose looks back at him – nine, maybe ten years old. She’s wearing a baggy overall with a wrinkly looking shirt underneath, a backward cap on her head, her hair messy, more brown than blond. Her smile is somewhere between a smirk and a disapproving pout, and there is mischief in her expression. Mischief, yet innocence.

He lets the picture slip from his fingers, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut as he stands back up and forces himself to walk out without a look back.

In his mind, a quiver has started to run through the entirety of their timelines, his knotted with hers at this very point, while he senses hers having diverged, too, twining itself with moments ahead she should not have foreseen.

He wants to tell himself he‘ll never come back to her and unveil the memories.

He knows better.

…

 

_Tonight I can write the saddest lines_

_I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too_

_…_

 

His concern for the stability of time is enough to keep him away from her for a while, until he experiences one of the backlashes of time travel.

He’s met people who are susceptible to the time fluctuations that ripple through the universe before. None were quite as receptive as Carmen.

_Your song is ending, Sir. He will knock four times._

Until then, he was ploughing ahead, feeling sorry for himself as he did so, that’s a fact, but he figured he was allowed some self-pity.

Now, however, he’s getting a bit mad. In both senses of the word.

He’s lived for over nine hundred years, has experienced as many regenerations as he’s experienced centuries, none of which had been exactly pleasant. And yet, the idea of _dying_ now fills him with a fear and dread that is absolutely ludicrous.

Ignoring the many flaws in his logic, he comes to believe that what he needs is someone to talk to. Someone he can be completely honest with.

And if that someone happens to be _Rose Tyler_ …well.

This time, when he enters the coordinates, his TARDIS fights him. She groans and she shakes, sending him to the floor twice before he finds himself kicking at the console. “Behave!” He shouts. And, surprisingly, she does.

He has to act quickly. He knows Rose will be on her own for some time, long enough for her to get into trouble. But he has to get to her as early as possible, so that he can then _bring her back_ with enough time to spare for her to follow the path she’s meant to follow.

He spots her easily enough, hard to miss in her bright pink dress, one of the rare times she’d dressed up for one of their adventures. He loves her no matter the outfit, but there is something primal in him that appreciates this reminder that she is indeed a woman.

She stops walking long before he reaches her, startling a little, the way he’s seen her do before when he’s nearby. Soon, she’s looking around, quickly finding him. She starts to grin, but the smile hasn’t blossomed completely that it freezes on her lips.

She frowns, confused. “You’ve changed your hair,” is the first thing she says as he joins her.

He doesn’t hesitate, knowing that if he does, even for a moment, common sense might catch up with him and stop him the way his TARDIS couldn’t. He leans down, close to her ear, and speaks the words.

…

“ _The horizon hides you in vain_.”

Rose will come to experience this many more times in the following weeks, but she will never quite get used to it. The feeling of her mind suddenly expending, almost splitting open. It’s not exactly painful, but it’s not pleasant either.

The rush of forgotten emotions is never pleasant either, especially since they are all particularly intense. Eventually, she will adjust faster to the memories of _him_ settling back where they’re supposed to be. But that first time, she nearly collapses from it, her very neurones sizzling and aching.

“Come,” he exhales, having grabbed her hand, looking both frazzled and a bit demented. “There’s no time.” And he’s pulling her forward, launching them into a run, the way only the Doctor can.

“Wait!” She almost cries out only moments later with a grimace of pain, her other hand coming to grab at his arm to keep herself from stumbling. “Can’t run in those,” she winces, already bending down to take off her heels.

This is madness.

She’s _running away_ with a Doctor from the future, wearing nylon tights and a ridiculously fluffy dress. A very pink fluffy dress. She might have laughed at that, if her brain wasn’t still trying to adjust to what his trigger had done to her, the ache intensifying. The moment she’s done taking her second shoe off, he’s pulling again, and she has no other choice but to follow.

She enters his TARDIS in a haze, hearing him say something like ‘Hold on to something’ as he rushes to the console and starts up a familiar sequence, sending them off to the Time Vortex. She’s glad she’s managed to get herself close enough to the railing, soon clinging to it for dear life as the TARDIS nothing short of _tumbles_ through time and space, barely able to hear the Doctor’s irate remarks to his ship through the rumbles and whinges.

The noises and shaking abruptly stop. Rose barely has time to feel herself starting to fall that she’s already halfway to the ground, her legs finally giving up on her.

She finds herself clinging to him, one strong arm around her waist pushing her back up; she hears a small, pained sound, and realises it came from her.

“Let me,” he says softly, his free hand already up to her face. Within seconds, warmth is trickling inward, replacing tugs of pain with pleasant tingles. “Sorry about that,” he breathes out, so close to her lips. “I’m a tad rusty at this.”

She hears the last of his words distantly, as if her head was under water, the sound of his voice muffled. Her face constricts again, eyes closing and her whole body shuddering, another memory that isn’t hers imprinting itself in her mind; he’s _screaming_ , screaming in agony, and she feels his agony, another whimper escaping her.

It stops as soon as he lets go of her face, and she finds herself heavily slumped against him, fighting for air.

“What’s _happened_ to you,” she almost croaks, trying to push herself up against his chest to look at his face, searching it as if for answers, noting how quickly he averts his gaze.

“You shouldn’t be able to do that,” is all he says.

“What?” She asks. “See _your_ memories?” He doesn't answer, merely pursing his lips. “You know what I think?” She continues softly, thinking about how this had also happened with the last person he'd linked his mind with. “I think you're allowing us in, even if you're not aware you're doing it. Your mind's just...trying to give you what you need.”

“I don’t need this,” he responds at once, quite coldly, but she’s not fooled by his forced demeanour.

“Yeah?” She tilts her head, and when he still refuses to look at her, Rose brings a hand up, pressing her palm upon his cool jaw until he turns his head. “Is that why you’re hiding me in the Time Vortex for? ‘cause you don’t need this?”

The moment he meets her eyes, something in him seems to break.

His grip on her waist tightens as he leans down, capturing her lips in a kiss that is both slow and bruising, opening her to him until his very frame is quivering with that need he claims not to feel. Even through the soft haze of desire, Rose knows this is reckless, potentially disastrous. But she’s as much a slave to this feeling of being _needed_ as he seems to be to his need for her.

From the first few hours she spent by his side, all these months ago, all she ever wanted was to appease some of his pain and loneliness. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to happen.

Maybe he’s meant to have gone through all these things he’s gone through to finally recognize that she is _here_.

She can tolerate her Doctor not realising it yet, if she gets to have _him_.

Both her hands have disappeared in his hair, curling into it, pulling at it until he uses his hold on her to pull her flush against him, against the growing evidence of his need, the pressure causing him to let out a low moan into her mouth.

The sound seems to bring him back to reality, going rigid and still against her. Next instant, he’s let her go altogether and stumbled backward, gripping his hair with both hands, that crazed look back in his eyes and all over his face. “No no no,” he says, not even looking at her. “This is so wrong, so wrong, you shouldn’t be here.”

“You’re the one who brought me here,” she reminds him, breathless.

“Not for _that_ ,” he almost spits with a deeply offended look, his scowl slightly put off, too. “I might have been making some questionable decisions lately, I’m still capable of controlling myself and not behave like a…a... ”

“A what, Doctor?” She asks. “A stupid ape?”

He throws his head back with an exasperated sigh. “I said that _once_ ,” he mutters more to himself than to her, pulling at his hair again as he paces around the console.

“Yeah well, that was one time too many,” she replies tersely. “And ‘m sorry but you wanna know the truth? You’re acting worse than I did on that day. And yeah, maybe I shouldn’t be here, letting you carry on with whatever it is you’re doing, ‘cause we both know it’s wrong. But my gut’s telling me you’d be even worse if you were on your own. So just _tell me_ ,” she demands. “Tell me what’s happened to you!”

“I lost you!” He nearly shouts, grabbing at the edges of the console, staring at her with wild, dilated eyes, his face constricted in anger and grief. “I lost everyone! Lost them all, the way I always do, because why should I get to keep someone, just the _once_? Nope!” He exclaims, pushing himself away from the console, turning around. “That’s not meant to be, oh no. I get to stay here, all on my lonesome, while luckier versions of me get the girl, which is the way it’s supposed to be, and I know that, but you know what? It _hurts_. It really, really does. Just this time I’d like something to work _for me_. Just this once I’d like to not be forced to say goodbye, and I don’t even get a chance to do that, most of the time. So now what, I’m just supposed to get on with things when my song is supposedly _ending_?” He lets out a fake, horrible laugh, throwing his arms wide. “Isn’t that just _brilliant,_ Rose? I’m expected to go on saving the universe, just long enough for it to kill me.”

Out of that entire tirade, all Rose can focus on is that last thing he said. “What?” The word comes out of her with her next exhale.

He merely waves a hand in an annoyed, dismissive way, still pacing across the room, eventually shoving both hands in his pockets. “No matter,” he mutters to his feet, before his head snaps back up, looking at a point above her head, with an expression that usually means he’s made an important decision. “I’m taking you back,” he says simply, already walking around the console again.

From her side of the control room, Rose has made a decision, too.

She’s too stunned to be able to think straight, acting on instincts. Right now, staring at this man, so close to snapping and having a proper mental breakdown, her instincts tell her of one thing she can do.

And if her interactions with the Doctor have taught her anything, it’s that in moments like this one, he needs her to take his hand and lead.

She’s moving, then, gathering up the hems of her dress to gain access. She’s almost done pulling both her tights and underpants down her legs when the Doctor freezes across the console, her odd movements having dragged his gaze back to her.

“What are you doing?” He asks briskly as she throws the garments aside, his eyes following their swift flight and landing. His frown deepens when he looks back up at her, and finds her slowly approaching him.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” She asks, not a hint of teasing in her voice, feeling her face warm up at her own boldness.

The Doctor actually stumbles back a little as she comes closer, unable to break eye contact.

“How d’you put it?” She asks, watching as his legs hit the jump seat behind him, and he falls heavily onto it. “Someone else got to…get the girl? I’m assuming I’m the girl in that scenario.”

He swallows hard, shaking his head, not really in denial, more in mild panic. “I…really could do without this kind of pity driven act,” he admits in a rush, his voice catching on the last word.

She’s stopped in her tracks, standing right in front of him.

“Pity?” Rose asks, very quietly, feeling oddly winded, her eyes prickling in spite of herself as all of her bravado drains out of her. “Do you…d’you really think that little of me?”

His eyes round up in surprise, his entire expression relaxing into something softer. Sadder, too, realising what he’s implied, and the hurt he’s caused her. “Oh Rose…” He breathes out, straightening up on the seat, sitting closer to the edge of it, his knees softly ruffling the fabric of her skirt.

He extends a tentative hand until his fingers are brushing hers; when she doesn’t move them away, he slowly curls his hand around hers, looking up at her with big, apologetic eyes, that hint of madness still tensing too many muscles of his face. “I’m sorry I never told you…how _highly_ I think of you,” he says, his voice low, and thick, his fingers squeezing hers. “Because I do, I really do. What I said…it’s got nothing to do with you. It’s more about…how little I think of myself, I suppose.”

Unable to speak, a painful lump lodged in her throat, Rose acts, gently pulling her hand out of his so that she can cup this sad man’s face with both her palms, and the way he shivers and sighs at this smallest of touch tells her all she needs to know.

She soon comes to straddle him, climbing over his lap with some difficulties, a certain pink skirt getting in the way. They make do, most of it getting squished between them as he wraps her in his arms and _squeezes_ once more.

All desire to fight seems to have left him in favour of pure desire, opposing no resistance at all when she initiates another kiss, granting her access the instant she begins slowly running her tongue along his lower lip, opening up to her, coming to meet her. That languid friction, combined with her fingers tightening in his hair, draws out a low sound out of him, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, responding to her with such _need_ that her insides clench with want.  

She wants nothing more than to help him find some release, some quiet from all these voices in his head she’s only caught a glimpse of when their minds were connected.

Her hands slip from his hair and disappear inside his jacket, that simple contact between her palms and his chest enough to feel how tense he is. She’s pushing the jacket off him, then, forcing him to release her briefly, until it crumples behind him on the seat. Her hands move on to his tie, tugging to loosen the knot, and he breaks the kiss. His eyes are hooded, his pupils large and dilated, his hair a mess. Rose changes her mind, releasing the tie to begin unbuttoning the collar of his shirt instead.

She doesn’t go far, distracted by the way his hand sneaks into her hair, successfully messing up the do she'd spent quite some time working on today by getting a firm grip onto it, his fingers curling and pulling. He brings her face back down to his, his other arm already coming around her waist again to pin her to him, kissing her deep, until she cannot keep her hips from rolling into him. Skirt or not, the friction she's creating is enough for him to let out another long moan, louder this time, his own hips bucking as his free hand jumps from her waist to her face.

He sparks their bond open without any warning, something he seems to have done as instinctively as she’d moved her hips against him.

Rose experiences an intense rush of heat and longing, along with flashes of a coffin being set on fire, before the connection breaks off abruptly, his hand having dropped from her face. “Sorry,” he almost pants against her lips.

“’t’s fine,” she breathes out, undulating once more into him, and he chokes back a squeak. “You do whatever feels most comfortable to you. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if there’s something I don’t like.”

She doesn’t give him a chance to try that again, though, successfully distracting him when she shifts upon him, searching through layers of fabric and tulle to reach that part of him she’d been feeling so strongly against her. Aware that he cannot focus enough to do much more beside breathe through the sensations, not with her hand pressing against his length, she takes advantage of his head being thrown back, peppering kisses down his jaw and neck, while her fingers work on unbuttoning his trousers and lowering his zipper.

She's forced to stop the slow exploration of his skin, eventually, needing to focus as she shifts some more, tugging to free him of all form of clothing from the waist down. While she’s initially quite successful and makes good progress, he’s as successful at getting her off task; the brief reprieve she’s allowed him to have by becoming absorbed with his clothes is enough for him to refocus. One of his hands goes from being entangled in her hair to pressing his fingers to her temple, and he rushes through her mind in a hot trail of pleasure.

Rose slumps heavily upon him as she moans into the crook of his neck, losing her grip with the tangible feel of him, overwhelmed by his ethereal presence inside her very self instead. Her brain experiences some discomfort at the unknown sensations, but it’s minimal compared to the way he’s _pleasuring_ her without even touching her.

She forces herself out of her own head, long enough to regain control of her body; this is supposed to be about _him_ , not about her, no matter how good it feels. She’s pushing herself up, then, letting raw need dominate over common sense, feeling him so close to where she wants him to be, so close.

She surprises them both with how swiftly she sinks herself onto him; the moment the hiss of pain escapes her lips, he breaks the connection between their minds, his face a combination of shock, pleasure, and deep disapproval.

“Rose…” he breathes out with the same mix of emotions as she rests her forehead against his, having just learned that being mentally aroused does not necessarily means her body was as ready.

He tries moving her up and off him, but she stops him at once, grabbing at his hand upon her hip. “Don’t,” she almost hisses again. “t’ll make it worse. Just…” She takes a deep, wobbly breath, forcing her body to relax a little. “Help me out?”

She doesn’t need to say more, feeling his small nod against her, one hand cupping her burning cheek while the other leaves her hip to slip under the fabric of her dress, her fingers still around his wrist to guide his touch. He pulls her face down, sucking her lower lip between his before initiating a slow, languid kiss, even as their hands find the place where their bodies are joined, directing his fingers to that collection of nerves.

He keeps his touch light at first, her entire body hypersensitive from the untimely intrusion. It isn’t long before her aching discomfort is dimmed by sparks of pleasure, though, the kind that takes its roots deep within her flesh, and spreads outward – the kind she needs. She feels herself relaxing around him as arousal sweeps through her nervous system, causing an instinctive roll of her hips into him. She's reluctant to move much more than that, knowing herself to be too sore to be able to get much satisfaction from it.

She can’t possibly leave him like this, though.

He’s showing absolute restrain, letting her set the pace, however slow, but she feels how wound up he is, feels the quivers that run through him; his entire body tenses with every roll of her hips, so clearly keeping himself from reacting to it, soft moans swallowed into their kisses, which are getting progressively sloppier.

Rose makes another decision, acting purely on instincts again.

She pulls his hand out from under her skirt and brings it to her face, grabbing the other one upon her cheek, moving his fingers, until they’re pressed to her temples.

“Do it,” she breathes out against his lips.

He does almost at once, opening up the connection. He does not…’move’, though, simply maintaining the link opened, letting her take the lead once more.

She may not know what she’s doing, she's always been a quick and intuitive learner. She pushes forward, recalling the sensation he’d elicited in her when he was in her mind, projecting a reflection of it inside his head, and she feels the shudders that soon wrack his body as the air rushes out of his lungs.

“Is that…is that all right?” She hears herself asking, her own voice oddly muffled, as if from far above – or far below.

He lets out a noise, not a word at all, but there is unmistakable consent in that sound. As if sensing her desire to carry on further but not knowing _how_ , she feels him joining her. He surrounds her, envelops her, pressing her onward, inward, guiding her the way she guided him earlier.

This is by far the strangest experience of her life, not quite able to grasp the intangible quality of their melding; there is no physical description for the way she's sinking deeper within him, into him, but she keeps on advancing, at times swelling, at times pushing, releasing all form of pressure at regular intervals. She doesn’t know if she’s doing this properly, but she must be doing _something_ right.

Against her, the Doctor has become a quivering, shuddering mess, choked up sound after choked up sound escaping his throat, forehead to forehead, his hands clinging to the side of her face while she clings to his wrists to ensure they won’t move.

She eventually reaches a place that feels tighter, _deeper_ , and she senses an immediate shift in him at having her there; he’s not guiding her at all anymore, too lost in this feel of her, his entire mind pleading with her to carry on, _oh_ _please please please._ Rose doesn’t hesitate.

She focuses all of her energy onto him, and _squeezes_.

This next flash is intense, suddenly watching herself falling toward swirling energy, hearing herself scream, but that's nothing, _nothing_ to the way he's screaming, feeling his terror and despair as he loses her. It contrasts sharply with the cry he's just let out against her, his body arching up as his hips roll into her, pressing against her in just the right way; the sensation, although as unexpected as the vicious memory, sends a swelling wave of heat across her body, causing her to moan in turn.

She repeats the same action again, and again, inducing the same response each time, drawing more memories out of him as one would draw poison from a bite, more flashes invading her mind while he loses himself to her. The repeated friction caused by the sway of his hips might have been enough to bring her to climax, but she's too shaken by the phantoms in her head and his pain in her heart, fighting against her growing anguish to remain focused on him.

She combines both sets of sensations, in the end, one of her hands sinking into his hair as she raises herself up, before coming back down, squeezing as she does so, in every possible ways.

He comes with a rush of blinding pleasure and devastating sorrow.

Mentally and emotionally shattered, Rose lets herself slump against him, hiding her face in the crook of his neck before he completely comes to, trying to conceal how distraught she is, not even soothed by the strong, double pulse of his hearts.

She can’t fool him anymore than he could fool her, not close as they are. She senses it more than anything else, the moment he realises the toll it took on her. He wraps her in his arms, tightly, breathing so close to her ear, the sound of it ragged and irregular; too loud, too shallow.

“I’m sorry...”

She wants to tell him not to do this, not to blame himself more than he already does, but she’s unable to speak. She pushes herself off his chest, bringing her hands to his face, wiping wetness from his skin as she briefly rests her forehead against his, shaking her head. She kisses him, then kisses him again; softly, slowly, achingly.

He will stand up, eventually, and carry her to his room. He will lay her down upon his bed and love her; softly, slowly, achingly. His fingers will not drift back to her face, not once, except to thread through her hair, more intent on worshiping her body, discovering all the ways to make it quake.

Every so often, he will breathe another apology upon her burning skin. No matter how many times she shushes him as she clings to his rippling form, murmuring how _it’s alright_ and _it’s gonna be okay_ , it doesn’t make a difference.

They both know she’s lying.

_…_

He cannot keep her.

He could never keep her.

He’s known this from the moment he asked her to join him onto his TARDIS, all these years ago; he knew a time would come when he’d have to let her go. Maybe that time came faster than he feared, but in the end, it doesn’t matter.

He cannot keep her.

This Rose he borrows, this Rose he hides. She’s not a shameful secret; she’s the most precious of gifts he wishes had been offered to him. He goes and takes her away from his past self, over and over again, because she’d _been_ his, once, and he’d been a fool.

Sometimes, they talk; often, they don’t.

Every time he opens up their bond, she invades his mind without even trying, in a way she shouldn’t be able to; in the way he always suspected she would. Every time she does, she absorbs a little more of him, more of those dark patches from deep within he’d rather keep hidden, but he’s got no say in this; neither has she.

She takes it all in, all these things he cannot say out loud, so that he often finds himself tasting tears on her flushed skin as he makes love to her, wishing he was strong enough to protect her from this, to protect her from him.

But his hearts have grown heavy.

They grow heavier each time he’s forced to bring her back and let her go, often a mere minute or two after he’s snatched her up and swooped her away. Again and again, he finds himself shrouding her mind, leaving her in that soft, ephemeral haze that allows him to retreat before she truly comes back to herself…at which point she remembers nothing of their time together.

And every time he finds himself alone in the console room, his hearts heavy from this absence of her, even with her scent still imbued in his clothes and the feel of her aching under his skin, he tells himself that this was the last time, that this must stop.

He cannot keep her, yet he does it again.

And again.

And again and again.

And again and again and ag-

…

It always starts like this: with a tickle, a tingle, a prickle, the sensation followed by six words often whispered in her ear.

“ _The horizon hides you in vain_.”

She asks him once, afterwards, where the phrase comes from – she understands _why_ he picked it easily enough.

“It’s from a poem,” he answers. “It reminds me of you.”

Her fingers are curled in his damp hair, his body close to hers upon his bed, yet not quite touching anymore; she almost feels it escaping his skin, the warmth his cooler flesh has absorbed from her. If she were to put a hand upon his chest, she knows how much colder he’d feel, already, her own human body still infused with heat.

“A… _poem_ reminds you of me?” She asks, a soft, bemused note in her voice.

There is a pause, not as long as she expected, before he speaks again. “Everything reminds me of you.”

There is such weariness in his voice that her throat tightens. She shifts upon the bed, until their bodies are properly touching again, letting him borrow some of her warmth once more. She weaves her fingers in his hair, her other hand pressing upon his cheek, and she kisses his chin.

“Say it to me?”

He does, eventually, whispering the words against her shivering skin. They roll off his tongue and seep inside of her in a series of sounds she cannot comprehend, and she knows he’s saying it in Gallifreyan, the only language the TARDIS won’t translate for her.

Even though she feels loved and wanted, always does when it’s the two of them like this, part of her remains too aware of the other _Rose_ he’s truly speaking to. The _Rose_ she’s come to know in glimpses, every time their minds meld and she takes in a little more of him. The _Rose_ he’s left crying on a beach, twice. The _Rose_ who’s already learned to live without him.

The _Rose_ she will soon become.

Not yet, though.

For now, even when his whispered words ring of need and devotion, there are parts of her missing. She’s a Rose with holes, a fractured version of the woman he seeks, only possessing half the memories – his, having yet to experience what he’s experienced.

And although it always breaks her heart a little more, to let him conceal it all from her, she almost welcomes the feeling, welcomes this quiet oblivion.

He was right, of course; now that she knows what’s supposed to happen, she would never be able to let the events run their course, wouldn’t allow herself to ever fall towards that Void.

She lets him hide her inside the Time Vortex, over and over again, just like she lets him hide this incomplete version of her from herself, allowing their timelines to carry down the path they’re both supposed to follow, from opposite corners of the infinite; that’s the only way he’ll ever come to find her, someday.

She only wishes it didn’t hurt so much.

She loves him.

_…_

His breakdown, when it finally comes, is more catastrophic than he could have anticipated.

Time Lord Victorious.

He doesn’t stop when the timelines in his mind shake and come to the bream of rupture. He doesn’t stop when he’s looked upon with terror and revulsion.

He doesn’t stop when his reckless actions bring upon the suicide of a kind, brave hearted soul.

Not only does he not stop, it only causes him to become that much more unhinged.

There’s no going back from this. He’s already crossed lines he should never have crossed. He’s not a victim anymore, not a mere survivor awaiting the hour of his next death – probably the last one, too.

He’s the _winner_.

He can do as he wants, now. Take what he wants.

 _Whoever_ he wants.

While his TARDIS had reluctantly allowed him to intervene and change that fixed point on Mars, she’s not as compliant when he enters a new set of coordinates. The Powell Estate, once more.

Right about the time Jackie will show them the ‘ghosts’ that have been appearing all over the planet.

He’s going to snatch Rose from there, and keep her for good, this time. He’s done sharing. He’s done being reasonable.

He’s done losing.

He cannot remember the ship ever being _this_ turbulent, his TARDIS fighting him with all her might. But he persists, snapping more levers and striking buttons in his rage every time she starts deviating from the course he’s trying to set.

“I won’t take this from you!” He finds himself shouting, so infuriated that saliva spits out of his mouth with every other word. “You do not rule me, I command you, and if the Laws of Time are coming to obey me, you will learn to obey me, too!”

The TARDIS settles down so suddenly that the Doctor stumbles and falls, hitting the ground hard. He springs back to his feet swiftly, scowling at the screens. While he can tell she’s taken him _where_ he wants to go, he cannot tell _when_ he is, the stubborn time machine blurring the information from him.

“I don’t find this funny,” he warns, his voice very low. She answers by more or less shutting down the connection between them, something he cannot remember her ever doing, although he’s done it a few times from his side.

Fighting his desire to kick at the console, he goes for the doors instead, opening them enough to peek outside. Frowning, he soon steps out, looking around. He’s near the Powell Estate alright, but he can tell something’s…different, his time sense tingling. He takes in the surrounding area, his gaze glossing over the scene. It appears to be late afternoon, a few passer-by walking through, a child attempting to skateboard further in the distance, low traffic on the other side of the street…

He notices the posters stuck to the nearest building, and his frown turns into a scowl, stepping away from the TARDIS to come closer, his eyes already fixed on the date written on all of them. It’s the Powell Estate alright.

It’s also 1995.

He’s about to walk back into his TARDIS, set on making it _extremely_ clear that he’s the one in charge here, when there’s a flurry of noises nearby. A yelp, some rough, friction sounds, followed by a small cry of pain. His head snaps automatically, peering at the child a short distance away, who’s just fallen quite roughly onto the pavement, the skateboard rolling his way.

Even as he walks towards the slowing skateboard, something clenches at his insides, unable to look away from the back of the child’s head – long, messy light-brown hair peeking under a backward cap. He briefly looks away when he bends down to pick up the skateboard.

When he straightens up, she’s already standing back up, having turned somewhat so that he can see her face as she assesses her own injuries, especially the palm of her left hand. ~~~~

At first glance, he supposes this must be the same day that picture was taken, the one he’d once seen in Mickey’s apartment. Further observations indicate that, although she’s wearing the same overall and cap, the shirt underneath is different.

Obviously, this is a preferred outfit of nine-year-old Rose Tyler.

Still assessing the damage on her bleeding hand, having yet to notice him, she suddenly freezes, her whole body shaken by a wave of shudders, and her face scrunches up in confusion, finally raising her head to look around.

He’s hard to miss, now walking slowly towards her.

She tilts her head, squinting as the lowering sun is right behind him, hopefully obscuring his face. She’s frowning up at him in mild suspicion, now. He doesn’t blame her. He _is_ a stranger, and having met Jackie once too many times – not to mention months spent with Rose, he knows what feisty human she’s being raised to be.

He stops before he gets too close, lowering himself, crouching to be more at her eye-level. It might have been more appropriate with a younger child, maybe, but he suddenly feels very tall; he’s hoping this will make him somewhat less intimidating. In the same line of thoughts, he puts the skateboard down onto the pavement and gives it a shove towards her, so she won’t have to come closer if she doesn’t want to.

She stops the skateboard with a foot, her eyes remaining on him. Her frown is deep, her glare unrelenting, and he feels the most illogical of emotions – guilt.

And shame.

It’s as if this young Rose knows _exactly_ what he’s been up to in recent hours, and she’s not impressed.

Not impressed at all.

“How’s the hand?” He asks, his voice hoarser than it should be.

It successfully puts an end to her odd stare. She half-shrugs, giving her injured hand a shake, causing a few droplets of blood to splatter on the ground. “ _Meh_ ,” she says. “’’s just a scratch.”

“Sounds like you’re quite tough,” he cannot help but say. “Most kids would be crying.”

She scoffs with a grimace, as if deeply affronted. “Cry-babies, maybe. My friend Mickey for sure. He’d be pukin’ if he was here, he hates blood.”

The Doctor finds himself smiling, something he feels like he hasn’t done in…a very long time. She doesn’t smile back, still a bit wary of this weird man. She’s not walking away either, though, her demeanor more trusting than cautious.

He thinks of ripples traveling across time.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” He asks, very quietly.

She’s staring at him again, too solemnly for a child her age. The way she eventually purses her lips in a half, resigned smile is painfully reminiscent of the person she will someday become.

“A bit. But my Mum always says there’s no point in wallowin’ and blaming the ground for you tripping over your feet in the first place.” She shrugs, before finishing quoting: “You gotta get up and get on with it, yeah?”

Both his hearts are beating too fast inside his chest, a painful lump lodged at the back of his throat. Across from him, this young Rose peers at him with faint traces of her frown, as if still sensing some of those ripples herself.

“Yeah,” he hears himself saying, the word almost choked out.

Her face relaxes a little more. “Gotta go,” she says quietly. “Mum’s waiting for me,” she tilts her head toward her building. “You…” She pauses, her eyes briefly glossing over, her confusion resurfacing. “You gonna be alright?”

She’s too young to be already worrying about him. Too innocent.

She’ll always be too innocent to carry the weight of his hubris.

He nods once with a small smile, and she offers him one of her own, genuine and kind, before turning away, jogging towards her home, skateboard tucked under her arm.

He stays like this for a long time, crouched down, head bent with his chin against his chest, eyes closed as he fights with the crushing realisation of what he’s done, and what he almost did.

He stays like this long enough for the sun to set behind his back, long enough for moonlight to begin creating shifting shadows upon the ground.

In the end, the Doctor gets up, and gets on with it.

 

…

 

As it turns out, dying is not easy.

Trying to die while retaining some form of dignity is even harder.

He’s died before, but this feels more…final. He’s done with the tantrums, though. There really is no point in wallowing.

All he can hope for now is some peace of mind.

He puts off visiting Rose, for some obvious reasons – and for some that are more obscure. But his time is running out, the sand in the great hourglass that was this life of his trickling down faster and faster as he fights the regeneration process.

It hurts.

When he cannot put off that last stop any longer, he can barely enter the proper sequence, most of his energy spent clinging to the console as he writhes in pain. And yet, he feels the TARDIS moving through time, opposing no resistance, helping him in this last, desperate attempt to make amends.

He doesn’t know _when_ he ends up, but he knows _where_ before he opens the door, and steps into the night.

It’s snowing.

Only strong familiarity with this place allows him to walk away from the TARDIS to go rest against the brick wall, as he waits for her to appear.

It won’t be long, now.

He doubts he will be able to talk to her; maybe it’s for the best. Back to how it all started.

It fills him with more regrets, though.

He never meant to keep her mind shrouded as long as he has, even if he knew how much it could affect her and her choices. He always thought he would go to her one last time, pick the right moment, and unveil the memories...let her have them all; they belong to her as much as they belong to him.

They’re part of that entangled timeline keeping them together, part of the Rose he loves.

It’s too late, now.

It’s too early.

Even from a distance, he knows it’s too early.

Her hair is longer than he ever remembers it being, longer even than it was when she first saved his life and the whole of his damned existence.

That, and she’s not alone, walking briskly with Jackie, the two of them arguing, the sound of their voices carried away by the wind. They’re hugging, then, going their separate ways, and he’s allowed one quick glimpse at her face before she’s walked passed him; too fast, always too fast.

His pain betrays him.

He manages to straighten up, just in time to see her shiver as she holds herself tighter, looking at him with some wariness yet genuine concern, and he thinks of those ripples.

“You all right, mate?”

He’ll lie to her, one last time.

“Yeah.”

“Too much to drink?”

He has to smile at how _human_ she thinks he is. “Something like that.”

She responds to his smile with her own, as soft and gentle as those snowflakes twirling slowly from high above.

“Maybe it’s time you went home.”

He wishes he could tell her the truth; that he’s already there.

He keeps this odd conversation going longer than he should. He's reluctant to let her go; always was, and always will be, until this body draws its last breath.

“What year is it?”

He’s never been more sober in his entire life, all nine centuries of it, but he cannot blame her for thinking he’s not in his right mind. He’s not.

He’s dying. And he has to let her go.

“Two-thousand-and-five,” she humours him. “January the first.”

He cannot decide if the universe is incredibly kind, or unspeakably cruel.

“Two-thousand-and-five?” He repeats and she nods.

All these trips he’d taken to their past, trying so hard to protect her future by choosing points in time when he thought she wouldn’t recognise him.

All this time, this face would always be the first she’d ever see.

“Tell you what,” he manages to say. “I bet you’re gonna have a really great year.”

“Yeah?” She offers him the most beautiful of smiles; the smile that will set him free.

May _her_ face be the last thing he sees.

 _Please_.

Let her face be his deliverance.

…

 

There once was a point in time when Rose Tyler, too, possessed the ability to see all that is. All that was.

All that ever could be.

Something the Doctor often forgets about. For all of his brilliance and omniscience, he can be remarkably short-sighted.

When Rose looked into the TARDIS, the TARDIS looked into her. And together as Bad Wolf, they saw every possible timeline, and played their part.

They did what had to be done to protect him; their Time Lord, their Thief.

Their Doctor.

They caught his essence on its way out of a dying body; some might even speak of soul. They held on to it long enough to send it back in time, enclosing it safely within a piece of himself, trapped in glass.

There it shall await for the flesh to become infused with regenerative energy, for one important woman to press her hand upon the glass and bring him life once more.

They did more than scatter words across the universe to ensure this will come to be.

They became the stone and created ripples that undulated through time.

The rest, as they say, is history.

…

 

When she releases him and runs on the beach towards the vanishing TARDIS, the Doctor follows her, gently slipping his hand in hers. She turns her head to look up at him, shivers running deep under her skin.

Slowly, slower even than he had a mere minute ago, he leans down and brings his lips close to her ear, whispering another set of words.

_“The horizon hides you in vain.”_

It doesn’t come back all at once, this time; this awareness of _him_.

It starts as a tickle, a tingle, a prickle, memories slowly slotting back into place. And then it is a _rush_ , emotions long forgotten breaking upon her mind like a wave breaking upon the shore.

Rose feels herself falling, until a strong arm catches her, and he pulls her to him. She clings to him, and he clings back, _squeezing_ , her face pressed to his neck, his loud, shallow breath in her hair; inside their chests, two single hearts pound in unison, salty water left drying on equally warm skin.

For the first time since the Void, their timelines are perfectly aligned.

…

 

She will ask him, someday, why she was always so aware of him, back when she didn’t even know who he was; why she’d sensed him more than she'd sensed any other him.

He’ll speak of telepathic connection and intertwined timelines, of how it made her more responsive, almost hypersensitive, long before they’d established the bond.

She’ll pretend she gets it.

Some part of her does.

…

_Here I love you_

_and the horizon hides you in vain_

…

**Author's Note:**

> To say this story has consumed my life these past ten days would be an understatement. I spent the entirety of my break from work writing it. And even after I went back to work this week, I've been editing it like a mad person until about midnight every night, then back at it at 6am before going to work. I'm a very very tired teacher, but I do hope you've enjoyed it. 
> 
> I would love ANY kind of feedback from you *smooches*


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